


Engagements can be Fattening

by dmarsh14



Category: Dollhouse
Genre: Dom/sub, F/M, Force-Feeding, Humiliation, Verbal Humiliation, Weight Gain, eating like an animal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-16
Updated: 2017-02-16
Packaged: 2018-09-24 22:52:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9790700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dmarsh14/pseuds/dmarsh14
Summary: As a bribe for a high government official, Adele DeWitt agrees to assign one of her dolls to be forcefed, gain weight, and be humiliated (and turned on by it all). **Set before the start of the series.





	

     Adele DeWitt sighed into the secure phone line, giving every impression of a long-suffering matchmaker faced with an entirely too-specific request for a partner. “Of course,” she said in her cultured British accent. “I understand completely what you need. It shouldn’t present a major problem. But you must understand, any engagement that is unusual and/or risks even moderate damage to the Active’s health will cost more.” Listening to the phone, DeWitt made some notes on a pad on her desk, nodding as the other went on. “I’m glad you understand, Director. And that you acknowledge the problems this could cause our Active. I’d hate to have to put extra riders on your contract, especially since you’re being so cooperative with our needs.” She quoted the price, and waited while the client considered. After only a few seconds, he agreed and she hung up. After verifying the exorbitant fund transfer, she went to the imprint room to consult with Topher about the package needed for the engagement.

     Finding Topher tinkering in the imprint room, DeWitt cleared her throat. Topher spun to face her and said, “Oh! Hello, Ms. DeWitt. What can I do for you today?”  
     “I have an... unusual imprint for you, Topher. I’m honestly not sure we have the base scans for all of the requirements.”  
     “We have scans for just about any personality trait you could imagine. If somehow we don’t have it, I can program a simulation of it from what we do have. What’s this package supposed to be?”  
     “I’ve noted the specifics here,” she said, handing her pad to Topher. She waited patiently while he scanned it, then asked, “can you do it?”  
     With a little chuckle, Topher answered, “can an unstable quasar pulse? Can a metaphysical anomaly evoke emotions in those that don’t understand it?”  
     Glaring at him, DeWitt sighed, saying, “I neither know nor care, Topher. Kindly get to the point.”  
     Topher flashed his usual self-assured grin. “Of course I can do it. We actually do have most of the scans needed for this. Lots of folks want to curb compulsive eating, and they get brain-scans to see if they can find out why they do it in the first place; we can get those. They’ll provide both the eating, and the aversion to doing it. Submissive is a bit unusual for an Active, but we have some of those too. Getting off on humiliation? I seem to remember at least one of those around. Getting off on being fed, in spite of, or is it because of? the humiliation/eating mix; that one’ll be a little tricky. And as for putting them together in one package, of course that’ll take some programming genius. Luckily, I am a programming genius.”  
     DeWitt nodded, already confident that he could, but feeling better with his cocky assurance. “There is to be no upper limit on her desire to eat, Topher. The client wants her appetite to increase with her arousal.” Her face twisted into a wry grin. “I think he might want the challenge of how fat he can make her get before we take her back.”  
     Toper, already headed for the storage units, didn’t bother answering. He just snorted and muttered something about, “it takes all kinds of shifty and rich.”

     DeWitt turned and went to the medical facility. One last concern, then, was the physical health of the Active they sent on this engagement. She laid out the specifications for their current physician, Dr. Saunders. “I don’t like it,” the woman said. Her expression darkened, highlighting the scars across her face. “It’s too much of a risk for any person to gain weight that fast, and with no upper limit. Add to that the high intensity diet when she returns, to get her back to a healthy weight, and the stress on her system would be too great.”  
     DeWitt’s business ethics prevented her from informing Saunders of the eminent government placement of their client that necessitated the, well, bribe of a deep seated fantasy engagement, so she just informed her, “you know we don’t do any engagement that is known to cause harm. There is a moderate risk to the Active’s health here, true, but once she’s back afterwards, you could easily surgically remove--”  
     Saunders cut her off. “Liposuction, even if it’s medically necessary, has several problems associated with it; I won’t sign off on unnecessary surgery for her. And that won’t deal with any distortions of her metabolism that will result.”  
     DeWitt sighed. “Once she’s back, we can designate her as ‘in recovery;’ she won’t be re-assigned until you’ve cleared her.”  
     Saunders just stared coldly at DeWitt for a few moments. DeWitt saw her eyes narrow, and thought that Saunders was guessing at least some of the necessities that made this engagement so obligatory. “No arbitrary time limit on her reducing diet, and I decide whether surgery is actually warranted? I will choose the best methods, the safest, not just the fastest.”  
     DeWitt nodded, saying “of course, Dr. Saunders. Once she’s back home, you can take as long as you like to return her to health.”  
     Still unhappy, Saunders nevertheless said, “fine. But you have to use November; she’s in the best physical health right now, and she’s been doing especially well in her exercise program; she should have the least risk from this insanity.”  
     DeWitt nodded. “Thank you, Dr. Saunders. November, it will be.” With a disgusted noise, Saunders went back to her paperwork on her computer as DeWitt went to inform Topher to proceed, and to summon November’s handler to bring her when the imprint was ready.

     “Sarah” sat alone in a sheltered alcove, out of the way, at Perch. She wasn’t really sure why she decided to come to this bar/lounge; she wasn’t into nightlife so much. And with her weight problems, and her endless snacking (so she thought), she didn’t figure she could even find a date.  
     She’d ordered a drink, and though she’d tried to stop herself, a huge plate of appetizers. Looking around the place, she munched on the plate, almost without thinking about it, as she watched hook-ups happen all around the bar. She sighed, and made an effort to put the damn food down.  
     Sadly, she smoothed her red dress. (Why had she chosen her one red dress? OK, it had been months since she’d had any action at all, and she was a bit lonely, but did she really want to look desperate? Why did she think she could get someone here? Looking like she did? And anyone who would choose her for this dress would probably be a one-night stand, anyway. Not exactly what she was starting to want, but, she supposed, better than nothing. Which is all she’d had recently.) Looking back out, she saw a man, with brown hair graying at the temples, well-dressed in a conservative dark suit scanning the bar, looking like he was searching for a specific person. She sighed, thinking that he was meeting a blind date or something.  
     She looked away, herself scanning the room for a few minutes. Glancing back at him after, she saw him looking right at her. She blushed, and lowered her eyes as he smiled and stood from his stool, walking towards her booth.  
     “Hello,” he said quietly when he arrived. “You look lonely. Do you mind if I join you?”  
     Barely able to speak from her embarrassment, Sarah shook her head. He smiled warmly. “Thank you, …?” As he sat, he looked expectantly at her. After a second, she realized he was prompting her for her name. “Sarah,” she said quietly.  
     “A beautiful name for a beautiful lady,” he answered, nodding briefly. “I’m...Daniel.”  
     She looked down at the tabletop again. “Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to make you upset.”  
     “I’m not beautiful,” she whimpered.  
     “Whyever would you say that?” he asked, seemingly truly surprised.  
     “I…” she stopped, even more embarrassed. “I know what I look like. I’m pushing the weight limits for my body type.” She stopped, confused. Why on earth had she admitted that to this stranger? She looked back at him; somehow, she felt that she could trust him.  
     Still, he looked confused. “I think you judge yourself too harshly. I think you look wonderful.” He gave a quick glance at what of her body he could see over the table. “You can’t be more than 120, maybe 125. That’s not so bad.”  
     Too startled at the accuracy of his guess to get any more embarrassed, she stammered, “but for my height and build, that’s on the high end of healthy. I have to be careful not to gain any more. And how did you know how much I weigh?”  
     He shrugged sheepishly. “I’m in Law Enforcement. We get good at estimating physical statistics.”  
     Something about him made her more relaxed, even excited. With his conduct, she started to think that he really did think she was cute (even now, she couldn’t think of herself as “beautiful”), and she thought she might have a chance. “Well, you’re a little low, actually,” she said. Why did she admit that? She always tried to shave as much weight off estimates as she could.  
     He smiled again. “I know. You’re just shy of 134, I think?” She nodded at his re-estimate, embarrassed, but somehow getting a bit aroused too. “It’s just rude to overestimate a woman’s weight, true?” he finished with a gentle chuckle.  
     Sarah found herself laughing along with him. She was somehow sure he really desired her, and wasn’t making fun of her. “You,” she paused, embarrassed again. “You really think I’m pretty?”  
     He seemed genuinely surprised. “Yes. You don’t see it? You’re not really overweight, you know.” Looking down again, Sarah missed the expression on his face that seemed to say, not yet, anyway.

     “Daniel” played the game, seducing her to come with him, even though he knew full well she was the Doll that he’d payed for. It added to the realism of the fantasy, that he tried to pursue her. He’d not given her his real name, of course. Nor had he told her just how high in Law Enforcement he really was. After an hour or so, he’d invited her for a late dinner at an “all you can eat” Korean buffet a few blocks away.  
     Not that he thought that anything would be wrong, but he decided on the all-you-can-eat as a final, firm test of her personality. Would she happily pack away everything she could, or would she stop dead at a certain point? If she did, would he be able to push her to continue past that point? All of these would be crucial to know as they went forward.  
     When they entered, he could tell that “Sarah” was excited about just being in an all-you-can-eat restaurant, and with a man who didn’t seem to mind her appearance. He could also tell that she was embarrassed by her excitement, and was fighting herself; clearly he could tell that she wanted to stuff herself with abandon, but she was disgusted with her own desires and tried to hold them back. He smiled to himself; everything seemed perfect. Now to business (or rather, pleasure).  
     They entered, he paid for them both, and he escorted her to a table. Once there, he invited her to go and get some food, while he held the table. Nervous again, she shook her head silently. He gave her an audible sigh, but said, “ok, I’ll go then. Be back in a minute,” and rose to get himself a plateful.  
     Returning to the table, he put down the plate, piled high. Glancing at her, he said, “your turn, Lovely.” She’d just started to calm down a little, but immediately became embarrassed again. Blushing bright red, she stood and slowly went to get herself something.  
     Watching her carefully as he nibbled at his dinner, “Daniel” saw her grab a plate and go through the buffet. Time and time, she took something, then reached out again to get more, then slowly withdrew her hand, empty. She was perfect. He could see how much she wanted to pile her food higher than his, but she held back out of fear/embarrassment. He smiled again, this time with a predatory glint.  
     She finally returned to the table, with a little less than he’d brought. By the time she was able to look at him, nervously checking if he was disgusted with her for taking that much, he’d softened his expression to a warm welcoming grin. He held up his fork, laden with barbecued beef. “Dig in, please! It’s delicious. I come here every time I’m in the city.”  
     Nervously, she did. She forced herself to go slowly; one of her old diet programs told her that eating slowly was the best way to limit your intake. She talked with him, using the “get-to-know-you” small talk as an excuse to eat slowly. “You don’t live here?”  
     “Oh, no,” he said. “I travel a lot. I’m actually Federal law enforcement.”  
     Gradually, she turned more and more of her attention to the food in front of her. He was right; it was amazing! Succulent and just the right amount of spicy, it practically melted in her mouth. Lost in the tastes, she didn’t notice speeding up, and was really surprised when her fork clanged against the plate, instead of spearing yet another bite. Blushing again, she looked fearfully up at her date, expecting the worst.  
     But he just smiled at her. “I told you it’s delicious.” After a timeless pause, he added, “I’m going to get some more. Do you want anything?”  
     Oh, god yes! She wanted so much more. But she just shook her head, and said, “I better not. I think I should wait for this to digest a little.”  
     With a shrug, he said, “that’s fine. I think I’d like something more; I’ll be right back.” When he returned, he had a new plate, piled with more food than the last. She could see new dishes, ones she’d been really tempted to try, but had thought better of.  
     He made some small talk, safe and generic, as he ate, and she picked at the leavings on her plate. Finally, he smiled again and said, “are you sure you’re not still hungry?” Before she could manage a reply, he held up his fork. “Here, try this chicken.”  
     She gazed at the chicken piece he held out. Chicken was pretty healthy, wasn’t it? Except this dish was dripping with some rich sauce (literally! He’d scooped up so much of the sauce it dripped onto the table.) “Come on, have a taste, at least,” he said. His eyes fell to her stomach and she blushed again. But he held the forkful out towards her, and she couldn’t stop herself; she took it in her mouth, and slid the food in as she leaned back, sliding her lips along the fork.  
     He was right; it was as delicious as the rest of the dishes they had here. Her eyes closed as she savored the delicate balance of seasonings, and the sweetness of the sauce. She licked her lips, gathering the last drops of the sauce still on her face. Sighing in pleasure, she swallowed the mouthful. She noticed that she was getting quite turned on, at the tastes, at her companion and his attentions to her, even at the feeding itself, she couldn’t exactly figure out which. But she was definitely aroused.  
     She opened her eyes and saw her date staring at her, like he could tell how hot she was getting. Blushing yet again, she looked down into her lap. But that showed her the round curve of her belly, and she shook her head. Her rational mind told her it wasn’t actually visibly bigger and swollen from her tiny amount of dinner, but she was afraid that he could see how stuffed it was; how stuffed she was. Strangely, that thought, of her belly swollen and filled to its limits, and his noticing it, only excited her more. She panted slightly, hoping he wouldn’t notice.  
     But he did. She wasn’t that stuffed, not really. But he saw how ashamed she was at her performance, and how turned on she was, too. She’d be perfect. He carefully judged how far he could push her before it was too much. A little more feeding of her from his plate, and before long he teased her into a return trip of her own. She kept getting more excited, and more embarrassed, as she ate more, and the embarrassment of her weight turned her on even more.  
     Finally, he invited her home, for a nightcap. Flushed, not with embarrassment, or not only, but also with sexual heat, she said “yes” in a breathless whimper.  
     He brought her to an unused safe-house the Bureau maintained in L.A. There were no cases in process that would need it, and none coming, so he felt safe using it for a few weeks. Once inside, he took off his jacket and tossed it on a table by the doorway. He made them both drinks; a simple sweet white wine for her, whisky on the rocks for him. She was so off-balance already, from the mix of the almost-sexual pleasure of her satisfied, stuffed stomach and her own embarrassment at her gluttony, that she could barely think straight. The alcohol simply took the edge off her jitters as they talked a little.  
     She was almost surprised that she soon found herself making out with him, necking and fondling each other. She tensed as his hands found her stuffed belly, with its covering of soft flab. But he smiled and gently kneaded it, eliciting more pleasure from her and she moaned quietly.  
     Before long, she let him unfasten her dress and pull the top down, revealing her breasts, clad only in her bra. She reached back and removed it, letting him see her upper body.  
     “I was wrong, I think,” he teased gently. “You do have a bit of fat here,” he went on, kneading it. She couldn’t tell if the hot flush that statement gave her was embarrassment or lust, or even both. All she knew was she wanted him.  
     She reached down to his trousers and pulled them open, slipping his belt out. Grinning, he stood and let her pull them down, and his underwear, then he did the same to her. Finally slipping his shirt off, he led her to the bedroom.  
     She was already hot and bothered, and thinking about what he’d be able to do to her, so was he. They immediately fell into bed, already groping at each other. After some basic foreplay, she ended up on her hands and knees on the bed, with him behind her. As he rammed home over and over, he tried a few comments. “Oh, yes,” he grunted. “You’ve got a wonderful little belly on you. I bet you want to grow it, don’t you? You secretly want to get fat, even obese. Eating turns you on, doesn’t it? You get off on stuffing your belly, swelling it up with food and fat. You probably can’t wait till you’re so fat you can barely walk. I bet you even want to get so fat you can’t walk any more, can’t even get out of bed; be totally dependent on your partner for everything. Food, sex, hygiene, everything. You’d love to be that fat, wouldn’t you? Wouldn’t you?!”  
     With each word, her shame, and her lust, grew. She moaned with each thrust, each word. When he mentioned immobility, she had her first orgasm, followed quickly by more as he kept ramming her roughly and telling her about her desires (which she could barely even admit were exactly as he said). At his final words, he came too, and the pair collapsed onto the bed, panting and spent.  
     “Oh my god,” she said breathlessly. “I never knew that could be so amazing.”  
     With a smile she didn’t see, he answered. “I thought you might like that.” As if suddenly thinking of it, he added, “would you like to stay here for a while? Unfortunately, I have to be away on a case for a few days, but you could stay here. I’ll be back as soon as I can and we can replay this,” he assured her with a grin, “and I’ll leave a tab with the bodega on the corner, so you can get whatever food you want.”  
     Hearing that, as she was supposed to, she flushed with mixed shame and lust. For a moment, she fantasized about running his tab dry, feeding nonstop and getting hugely fat. But her own humiliation kicked in and she shook her head to remove that thought. Finally, she nodded to him, whispering, “I...think I’d like that,” with a shy smile.  
     Businesslike, he said, “it’s settled then. You’ll stay here until I get back. I’ll set up the tab before I leave tomorrow.” Of course, he’d already set it up; it was wonderful what dropping a federal investigation of immigration status could do. (He smirked to himself; of course, the FBI didn’t do a thing with immigration/deportation, but they didn’t know that, and he had no problem using their ignorance for his own purposes.)

     Over the next weeks, she stayed in “his house,” and he came and went as, he said, his case load permitted. When he was away, she stayed inside, watching TV, reading, or surfing the internet, and ate. She hardly ever meant to, but somehow she just couldn’t stop herself. With food so easily available, and free (for her anyway), she had no real reason to prevent herself from feasting. And feasting, and feasting. It turned out that the bodega he set up for her would provide cooked meals (like a catering service), and so she didn’t even have to work to prepare them. After only a day or two, they started adding junk food and sweets into every order she made. With such food always in the house, she constantly snacked on it without even consciously realizing it. Between her inactivity and the steady stream of food, she rapidly lost her internal battle to keep “fit.” Her belly swelled, as did the rest of her body, and she couldn’t seem to stop it. A low level of shame kept her on the edge of arousal nearly constantly. After a few days, she found herself stuffing her face with one hand, while the other got her off as she fed. She only stopped eating when she screamed in orgasm, and her “feeding” hand moved to rub her growing, softening belly as she shuddered in ecstasy.  
     When he could come home, her days were actually little different. They’d eat together, and though she didn’t really realize it, he made certain she ate much more than she consciously noticed or was used to, even now. By the time their meals were done, she could barely move from being so stuffed. Once he helped her heave out of the dining chair and pulled her to the bedroom, they’d inevitably repeat their first time.  
     And he’d heap “abuse” on her. She couldn’t call it abuse, not really; she loved it. She loved feeling the shame of her obesity, her endless overeating. It only added to her arousal. She really didn’t understand it, but she didn’t want to; she just enjoyed the eternal feedings and feelings of abject fullness and her own shame at her weakness; when he called her on it, it got that much better.  
     He’d taken to calling her a “fat cow,” or a “massive pig,” and somehow she loved them even as they humiliated her. Sometimes, especially during sex, he’d change it to “piggy,” even adding “little” to it, indicating that he expected her to grow fatter and fatter still: “you’re such a little piggy,” he’d say. “You’re getting fat. Look at your thighs; there isn’t only no gap, they’re squeezed against each other their whole length!” or “Your flabby fat belly is hanging so low it’s almost on the bed! How much longer till it touches, do you think?”  
     And with every sentence, her shame and her arousal, and now her hunger, grew and grew. Finally, starting on their third reunion, he didn’t let her stop eating even for sex. She was so deep in his control now that she didn’t dare argue, even if she’d have wanted to (which was far from certain). Now, he just put a trough of food on the floor, and had her kneel in front of it, eating like a literal pig as he pounded her from behind.  
     “Fucking cow,” he grunted as he thrust hard into her. “God, these used to be so thin and supple,” he went on, grabbing her thighs and sliding up to her hips, caressing and squeezing even as he kneaded them roughly. “What have you done to yourself? I hate how fat you’re letting yourself get, but you like it, don’t you, fatty? Say it, say that you like it.”  
     But she couldn’t talk; with every thrust, he forced her face further into her food trough, the strength of the motion actually shoving the food right into her mouth, nearly suffocating her and driving it right down her throat. Even her orgasms, now, didn’t stop her from feeding. Even around her screams of pleasure/shame, she still swallowed every morsel forced into her mouth.  
     He’d gradually slipped them into a BDSM situation; using food alternately as reward for good behavior and punishment for “bad.” When she pleased him, he gave her tasty food in however much she wanted. When she didn’t he force-fed her, stuffing the food down her throat himself, or just fucking her from behind and using that to force the food into her mouth; she didn’t dare spit out anything. She was so descended into submissiveness, that she didn’t disobey any of his orders, or even question how the same thing could be reward or punishment, depending on his whims.  
     Just now, he grunted again, “I hate having to punish you like this. Force feeding you and making you fatter is be a punishment, not a reward. But,” he went on, leaning (as far as he could) over her wide and widening back to hiss in her ear, “you love every bite, don’t you? You want to get fatter! You love being obese!” Finally cumming, he thrust hard into her one last time, then withdrew, kneeling beside her, her face still buried in the trough. “Fine! Stuff yourself with the whole thing! See if I care. In fact, have more!” He rose, went to the remains of their latest dinner (so much food that even her appetite hadn’t finished it all, not to mention his leavings), and roughly dumped the whole table-ful of scraps into her trough. It cascaded over her head, falling around her face and she mindlessly rooted after it all. Returning to her, he shoved her face even deeper into the mass of edibles, growling, “eat everything! Go on stuff yourself till even you’re satisfied. If you ever can be any more. Eat it! Stuff your belly. Eat so much you’ll explode from the overfilling. I bet you would, too, wouldn’t you? You’re so addicted to eating and getting fat, you’d probably try to eat so much that you’d pop yourself if I let you.”  
     Rising again, he went to the fridge, and the pantry, and grabbed every last bite of food inside. “Here!” he roared, “eat everything! Right now! Stuff it all down your greedy throat, you fucking pig!” He dumped all the food in her trough, piling it actually above her head, burying her face completely in the deluge of food. She kept eating, desperately trying to get air again. He rose again and ranged through the whole house, grabbing her whole supply of candy and junk food from everywhere she’d stashed it. Back at her again, he dumped that in too, for her to eat.  
     Mindlessly, she kept chewing and swallowing everything in front of her. She was so far gone, she literally couldn’t stop. Her consumption wasn’t in her own control any more; it was in his. If he told her to keep eating, then keep eating she would, even if her stomach burst. Watching her desperately, hopelessly stuffing herself, he got aroused again, and with her still eating like an animal, he dropped down behind her again and started thrusting into her, rougher than before.  
     Of course, the rough thrusting pushed her ever deeper into the giant pile of food and she kept feeding. He heard some moans, painful now, coming from her around the endless parade of food down her stuffed gullet, but by now he couldn’t be bothered to care. Bigger and bigger her already-stuffed belly swelled, packing tighter and tighter until it really looked as if one single bite more would rupture something. Still he fucked her and still she packed even more in her bloated, packed belly.  
     Finally, she emptied the entire house’s supply of food. Still mindlessly obedient, she actually licked the last tiny crumbs and drips from the surface of her trough and whimpered, distressed that there wasn’t more to eat, even as her hands tried to cradle her gargantuan, tightly stuffed dome of a belly. After a moment, he seemed to snap out of a trance, and he whispered to her, “lay down and relax a minute.”  
     Gratefully, she slumped onto her side, sobbing quietly at the pained fullness of her impossibly stuffed belly, cradling the massiveness in her hands. Looking critically at her, he saw that her stomach was so swollen that she was far larger than even a woman pregnant with quintuplets. He thought he could actually see it throb in time with her pulse. He gently put his hand on her tight belly, ignoring her groan of pain at even that tiny pressure. Sure enough, he felt it pulse in time with her heartbeat.  
     Ranging his eyes over her whole body, nude in front of him, he saw her obesity clearly. Her midsection sprawled out across the floor, a thick pad of soft flab over the hard tightness of her overstuffed stomach. Looking up, he saw it stuck out a little past her breasts, themselves rounded and much larger than they used to be. He stood and moved behind her, still leering at her new body. Her butt stuck out, each cheek nearly the size of a soccer ball, and her arms and legs bulged, flabby and at least twice their original size, jiggling with the small movements she couldn’t quite stop, even though each tiny motion sent waves through her too-stuffed stomach, causing whimpers of pain as it twitched, filled almost past its capacity.  
     He left her there, nearly afraid to try and move her lest the movements really did burst something, and honestly, also not at all sure he could manage to lift her alone.

     Over the next few days, he stayed (perhaps longer than he really should have, but he couldn’t resist), and they repeated the trough-session over and over, stuffing her belly to capacity day after day, keeping it packed tight and hard. Her metabolism had altered, it seemed, and her body made incredible efforts to empty her eternally-filled belly, packing more and more fat on her already enormous body. Within another week, she was only barely mobile, between her steady increasing weight, the lack of exercise keeping her muscles weakened, and of course, her hard belly, continuously packed to its absolute limits.  
     As it turned out, the engagement was due to end by the end of that week. She barely stirred as a new person entered the bedroom. Her new body totally covered the bed, reaching from one edge to the other, her fattened flab hiding nearly the entire surface.  
     Not letting her emotions show, the woman who entered simply crossed to “Sarah.” She couldn’t manage to avoid a horrified, angry glance at the door, where the client had exited a few minutes ago. “Hello, Sarah. How are you feeling?”  
     “Tired,” came the response, “heavy. But I like it now. I’m comfortable.”  
     “It’s time for your treatment.”  
     The word triggered the proper response. “Okay.”  
     The Handler gestured behind her, and a team of three came in with a stretcher. Between them, the three got “Sarah” onto the stretcher and sedated her for a preliminary examination on the trip back home.

     Nine or ten months later (it was difficult for even the support staff to tell time down here, and the Actives didn’t even process it), November was nearly back to her original weight and figure.  
     Just after November left the medical suite after her latest exam, DeWitt entered. Dr. Saunders glared at her. “What now?” she snapped.  
     “How is November doing?” DeWitt asked gently.  
     “Her metabolism is almost back to normal, but she still has some careful diet to get it back all the way. And you saw her weight.”  
     “I did. May I have her numbers, please?”  
     “Her base metabolic rate is above 1670; healthy for her age and height should be closer to 1530. She’s 160 pounds right now; her starting weight was 130, and I want her back to that.”  
     DeWitt sighed. “Be that as it may, Dr. Saunders, we need her for an engagement.”  
     Saunders glared harder. “No. She’s not ready for any client yet.”  
     “There is no client. It’s an in-house engagement. We just need her to surveil an FBI agent who isn’t taking the hint to leave us alone. There’s no action, no risk. All she needs to do is make friends with him, and report to us when required what he’s doing. We can even program into her imprint all steps needed to return to health.”  
     “No.” Saunders wouldn’t budge. With another sigh, DeWitt simply said, “I’m sorry Dr. Saunders, but I have to override you for this. November must be assigned for surveillance of Agent Paul Ballard.”  
     Leaving Saunders fuming impotently, DeWitt headed for the imprint room to advise Topher of what they needed.


End file.
